The Call to Arms
by Electromotive Force
Summary: A Spartan-II was given the once in a million pardon from active duty: Sole Surviving Daughter. But colossal obligation lies ahead that will lead her to disobey this humanitarian mandate. For when the Covenant arrive at Earth, Maria's Spartan instincts take over.
1. Preamble

**0530 Hours, October 20, 2552 (Military Calendar)/  
Sol System, D77-TC Special Operations Pelican Dropship _Blackbird  
_Low Earth Orbit**

Maria stood at the edge of the heavens.

Awestruck, she took in its powerful beauty. Its stillness.

Had there not been this critical mission, she'd stand here for hours just taking in the splendor of mother earth. Her ionosphere resided just below Maria's feet. The special operations pelican drop ship hovered in low orbit, the colossal sphere down below beckoned as if sucking her in. She slowly traced her sights from the depths below all the way up to the zenith of this perfect, azure orb. The blues and the whites twirled together, leading up to a dim glow at the sunlit horizon…and then: the inky black of the far beyond.

It was surreal. She felt humbled, hollow, weightless. The slow rush inside her settled and she was one with space, in tune with her surroundings. She looked around to take in its majesty once more. Coming into focus against the deep blue below was the deck plate of the pelican. It was nothing to the planet. Insignificant little piece of metal. And she stood upon its edge; the threshold to a dream—the brink of absolute fantasy. She stared into earth with no thought, nothing in her mind, as if earth persuaded her that she needed none. She realized just how small the human race actually was.

A crackle of static washed over her ears as the audio emitters in her prototype armor helmet resonated for the first time. Voices, so crystal clear, echoed into her consciousness. So incongruous to the quiet stillness of space.

She snapped back into reality.

"_Blackbird arriving at the window in three…two…" "Telemetry signals green. All signals clear." "Confirm drop bay open. Roger." "Preparing test and catalogue of A-12-121 MJOLNIR Mark VI Armor." "Spartan 062 approaching rear of craft_."

It was the real-time full-duplex feed of mission control down below, tracking her every move.

"_Soldier, you ready to visit beautiful Songnam for a little exercise?" _said an old voice thick with Korean accent.

Maria considered the question. The Test Director sure put it to her leniently, as if she had a choice. Technically, she did. OT&E never tolerated safety risks, especially ones involving extreme high-altitude free-falls.

She had a choice. And it comforted her. After all, she hadn't seen any kind of action since the fall of Jericho VII. But deep down, she pushed her illusion of choice to the far corner of her mind. She was, and always would be, a Spartan—whose luxuries were seldom. There was no denying it, no escaping the call of duty. Deep down, no matter what danger befell her, she needed to complete this drop—for a number of reasons. For one, she was tired of her current job in the reserves and wanted to be reminded of what the rush of combat felt like. And surely pride was one of the reasons as well, especially since she volunteered for this duty. She couldn't pull out now. What would that say of Spartans?

But more than just petty raison d'être, she remembered the feeling...

She remembered what selfless service was.

She deliberated all the likely outcomes of this test sortie. Above risk and danger and death, were Spartans—her brothers and sisters—empowered with the greatest augmentation of all time. A scientific wonder. A modern marvel of pristine engineering. The successful evaluation of this exercise would prove that MJOLNIR Mark VI was ready to be fielded by the leanest, meanest, greenest soldiers the universe had ever seen. Who knows what they'd be capable of?

The Naval Captain's question surged back into her mind.

There was utterly no reservation in her voice. It was time to perform her soldierly duty.

"Affirmative, sir."

"_Then commence drop on my mark..._" She took in the barren vista of cold vacuum once again. It offered her no quarter and seemingly ushered her towards earth, as if forcing her to complete this mission.

"…_MARK!_"

She jumped.

**Author's Note: Yes, in case you missed it, this is a story based on 'Armor Testing' (in the Halo Graphic Novel). I hope to turn this into a big project, complete with a backstory deserving of a Spartan.**

**Also, "Alone" fans: don't worry. I just wanted something to keep me busy while I finish that one. Yes, the end is near for "Alone". The potential of "The Call to Arms" is something that has wracked my brain for a good week now. It also ensures no lag time in my writing as "Alone" comes to a close.**


	2. An Appointment of Ethics

**_Five years earlier..._**

**0930 Hours, March 2, 2547 (Military Calendar)/  
****Sol System, Earth, UNSC HighComm Facility Bravo-6**

In a SCIF deep under the ground of Sydney, Australia, Vice Admiral Parangosky sat cross-legged and tight-lipped.

Her features had the potential to intimidate beserking Brutes, so stern she appeared. As if the mere sight of the rank she wore wasn't awe-inducing enough. Even some above her may have thought twice before crossing this particular senior officer, as well-connected as she was.

Across the oak conference table was Admiral Francais Jones, commanding officer of Bravo-6 and arguably the most entrenched man in the UNSC. With his fingers on everything and decades of military experience, he stared back at his suboordinate for a minute after she'd entered the room, knowing something had gone awry.

"I understand you reside in the Navy Special Weapons Committee and you're on oversight for some of our projects. This face-to-face you requested obviously means there's something important on your mind. You can speak freely here."

"Frankly, sir, we're looking at the first major internal crisis since Ex-Colonel Robert Watts defected." she replied. "A major public affairs nightmare."

"Tell me."

"A self-righteous Lieutenant decided to apply superfluous regulation to one of our Spartans."

"…Go on."

"Spartan zero-six-two had a sister in the program—"

"—Excuse me, did you say a _sister_? We recruit siblings?"

Parangosky shifted in her seat and carefully deliberated how she'd word her next sentence.

The word 'recruit' was a very loose term in the Spartan program. Spartans weren't exactly 'recruited'. If that was the case, it would imply that they had a choice in the matter of being inducted into the Spartan-II program, which is exactly what they were denied in the first place: choice. They were abducted at a very young age, forced to abandon their childhood existence and live a life of hardship and uncertainty, morphing by rigor into the most deadly and effective combat unit the universe had ever known. The only choice they were ever given was how best to kill an enemy of the UNSC, whether it be Covenant intruders or colonial dissidents from yester-years.

"We weren't officially at war, sir. That particular stipulation wasn't a consideration at the time."

"Well, it sure is now that I know. Go on, Vice Admiral."

"She was killed in the Atlas Moon campaign." Parangosky took a deep breath before breaking the news: "This Lieutenant invoked the Sole Surviving Daughter protocol. PERSCOM is outprocessing her as we speak."

Jones' eyes went wide.

_"_A leak, you're telling me?" Jones instantly realized his reputation and perhaps his very career was on the line upon Parangosky briefing him of this new development. Worse, the integrity of the Spartan program was now at stake. He was visibly stirred.

He was placed in direct oversight of the program, shared jointly with other department heads after the fall of Jericho VII, when the human War effort had taken a turn for the worse. A major UNSC staging area, Jericho VII of the Lambda Serpentis System was the gateway between the outer colony and inner. When the system was overtaken by the Covenant in 2535, it was clearly only a matter of time before mankind's enemy would swarm the inner colonies. The death toll trends had spiked since then and remained at a perpetual high as the Covenant further encroached human territory. Long ago at the creation of the SPARTAN-II program, Admiral Jones avowed to the leadership of ONI/Section II that any news of its super-soldiers dying would never pass beyond his office. The military propaganda machine wasn't solely the burden of Section Two after all; it was a shared responsibility of everyone in the know of the clandestine project.

If such news ever decompartmentalized and leaked even to other military personnel outside of ONI, the consequences could be earth-shattering. The news would inevitably carry far outside of military control. News of dead Spartans to the public...

It was understood throughout that 'Spartans never die'. It was perhaps the single most effective crutch the UNSC provided its star systems.

"Who, _exactly_, did this?" he tilted forward and beared his elbows down on the table.

She had the name and rank memorized. "A liaison officer we embedded in the project: Lieutenant Elias Haverson."

"How does a low-ranking officer accomplish something like this?" Admiral Jones asked incredulously, almost laughing. He reclined his chair backwards. "ONI Directive 930, Vice Admiral. How did he bypass it?"

"That's still undetermined, sir. We'll have to question him to find out."

"Moot point, now. This _Haverson_ is probably not too far out of the Academy, am I right? Young, inexperienced."

"Sir, I believe...yes, sir. He's got two years time in service."

Jones shook his head. "Well, whoever reviewed his records prior to this assignment apparently thought he was the ideal candidate. I guess there wasn't a more qualified major or colonel."

"Running short on personnel these days, Admiral."

"But Haverson's task was not a simple one. A job like this requires discretion. Balancing truth and lies, relaying specific information to the public at specific times. His job needed a cunning officer at the helm, cunning but political. Have we picked the wrong man for the job?"

She didn't respond.

"Margaret, I'd like to thank you for your sense of urgency and forthcomingness in this problem. The fact that you've come forward now rather than trying to take this on alone gives me hope." Jones suddenly realized what had to be done. "We have to nip this in the bud before it gets out in the open." he whispered emphatically. "We need top-of-the-line damage control. Every personnelist that has any knowledge of her and her sister needs to be interrogated and made well aware of the consequences of unlawful disclosure, and you have to devote routine surveillance on their every action. You have to scrub any files of her or her sister floating around in cyberspace. Offices and homes will be ransacked. Eavesdropping devices will be planted. People will be sanitized in one way or another. And I don't care how many men it takes; I don't care how much time it takes; I don't care how much money it takes...you close off this leak!"

She sat straighter and tried to look as presentable as possible. "Sir, it's already out in the open. I'm afraid too many people know, now. I've ran numerous assessments myself. We need to look beyond preventative measures and plan for exposure."

"What would _you_ suggest we do?"

"It would ultimately be your call, sir, but exposure is not the end. There may be a possibility we could profit from this. Think if we released some of their successful mission details to the Enlisted Core. It would surely have a positive effect."

"Which would also allow for potential disclosures of a _lot _of sensitive information." Jones interjected.

"I can assure you every product published will be thoroughly sanitized. I'll task a small army of editors to ensure every derivative is leak-proof. I think this is a good opportunity, sir."

"Is that your professional opinion, Vice Admiral?"

"There's little else we can do short of a miracle."

Admiral Jones glared through her, though not necessarily at her. He suddenly took on a calm air, realizing her ideas had potential in light of losing positive control over the Program's secrecy. He leaned back in his rich, leather chair and whipped out a cigar from a metal case. Staring at it thoughtfully, he set the case down, balancing the shiny tin perfectly on the table's edge with no sound. He then brought the finely rolled leaf to bear, sniffing it gingerly.

His eyes met hers. "Then we'll _make_ a miracle."

_**One week later…**_

Lieutenant Eli Haverson just entered the lobby of the mightiest military fortress the known universe had ever seen.

Informally know as The Hive, this was the focal point of all Earth's military affairs including the home to the mysterious and all-seeing Office of Naval Intelligence.

This was the mouth of the monster known as the UNSC.

Accomplishing only a few steps into the well-lit ambiance, he was met by a trio of armed guards, two of them with military working dogs—trained to snap limbs on command. They eyed him cunningly.

Conscious not to make any sudden movements, he reached into his pocket and produced a common access card with an outstretched arm. After visual inspection from one of the stone-faced sentries, he was waved on to swipe it into a nearby machine. Every day, he'd see the same faces, but the guards never offered any reply to his attempts at chit-chat past the obligatory 'hello' or 'good morning'. He'd given up pressing for more than formalities many months ago.

Haverson hadn't seen the dogs in a few weeks. He knew that the level of security was slightly elevated today. For what reason, he couldn't be sure. All of ONI was heavily compartmentalized, its members tight-lipped. Was this just another random antiterrorism measure? Or was there a specific underlying motive for heightened paranoia that HighComm Facility Bravo-6 had been known for? The only reason a visitor would be challenged upon entry is if the Entry Controllers feared insertion of a virus into their Public Key Infrastructure, intentional or unintentional. Maybe the forward intel agencies tipped off the right person to an imminent threat. He was sure there were no viruses contained within his access card, though; he scanned for it prior to leaving for home yesterday.

He swiped it with confidence as the guards maintained composure, their weapons hoisted across their kevlar clad chests at Port Arms.

Eli didn't feel riled up by the hightened security presence. He was quite used to it by now even though he was just a cadet in training a couple years ago. This was all simply an addendum to his morning routine, still easy for him to maintain cool. While waiting for varification of his credentials, he regarded the massive interior and marveled at its decadence. A glance behind him revealed the broader side of the colonnade which was hewn from solid marble itself. Even the atrium floor was a jet-black obsidian, giving Eli the disconcerting sensation he'd just walked over a frozen sea of black ice every time. He'd fall through one of these days if he stared hard enough. He then caught a hazy reflection of himself in the abyss below his feet: a white service dress, glossed shoes almost as lustrous as the floor, and an already impressive rainbow rack of ribbons on his chest. Eli shook his head. In his opinion, HighComm's splendor and endless novelty stole from its own functionality. Oh, the money that could've been saved on more useful things.

As if to accentuate more of Bravo-6's effortless influence of power and grandeur, the lobby appeared more like a five-star resort upon first impression to the untrained eye. Hanging baskets of exotic flora dotted the periphery near ballistic-grade windows. He leveled his gaze further outwards, still waiting. The walls were albino marble, a polarizing contrast against the nothing-dark floor. They towered ever higher as they tapered towards the apex—a clear pyramidal oculus infused within a polycarbonate mesh, a beautiful sight to behold. Many didn't know that it could withstand a direct nuclear blast of immense yield. It was a rather comforting prospect for him knowing the work environment subsited in total safety, arguably the safest place on the entire planet.

The people swarmed the lobby like worker bees, laborious in their daily tasks. General's aides zipped through the droning din with fresh coffee in their hands. Bureaucrats in suits hovered closely by there military liaisons. Solitary commanders with more important agendas paced briskly across the expanse to their destinations. Eli knew that the Hive staff were far too busy to ever partake in the frivolties that surrounded them—the coffee bars, massage parlors, shopping kiosks. Just more, untouchable quirks often overlooked due to lack of necessity in such an industrious workspace. People had their priorities. And priorities inside Bravo-6 were of the gravest nature to the UNSC and indeed the human race.

Haverson snapped back to his immediate proximity as the electronics by his side chimed a friendly tone. An LED pulsed green.

He was clear.

The guards stepped aside with no word and gestured him further inward.

Next was the metal detector/residue sniffer. He proceeded under this massive arch, which seemed more like a shiny, twisted torpedo. It bounded right out of the floor, twisted like a dolphin frozen in mid-breach, and then plunged back into the depths below. Sleek and otherwordly. Still, the need for it was justified regardless of its puzzling artform. He looked above to the underside of the towering apex as he crossed under, only now remembering that a metal key was still in his pocket, the one he'd received last evening. It was too late now; he'd already crossed the threshold of the detector. He prayed the guards wouldn't flinch too hard when the device sounded off, but much to his surprise the expected reaction didn't come from the machine. Nothing unusual, no sound at all. He was clear once again.

He glanced over either shoulder at the guards as he proceeded further on. They had already forgotten about him, focused on the next prospective visitor to the Hive.

Up ahead was a chrome turnstile that buzzed promptly as he neared. Awaiting at a shoulder-height desk just beyond was an attractive young receptionist. She was blonde with her hair up in a bun, a helpful smile. He offered his access card along with a curt smile.

"Briefing room nine." she said politely.

"Thank you." he replied.

He walked on and stole a deep breath. He had made it through the Gauntlet. Nothing changed, and rightly so. Anyone, no matter who it was, had nothing but partial access to larger sectors while here. One sector at a time, all the time. They always knew where you'd be. They always knew where to find you. From the moment you passed through the exterior, you were observed and catalogued—from the lowliest janitor to the installation commander themself. _No matter,_ Haverson thought. He only had one matter of business to attend to at this time. He'd see it done, then go home and relax. It was overcast today in Sydney, a day well-spent on the beach. A couple of cold beers, the sun, the surf and the sand, and the company of his wife and children. It would be a perfect day.

Eli strode across the polished rock expanse, mindful not to look down again. He allowed a casual glance to the right where the facility's most luxurious rest area was in the center, complete with a coffee bar, plush seating arrangments, and all manner of fatening pick-me-ups housed behind windows of curved glass. There was no time for indulgence this morning. The elevator beckoned in the distance, growing in size as he approached. Brushed aluminum doors and chrome buttons on a marble wall were more style than substance. He depressed one and the elevator opened on queue with a chime. He stepped in.

There were many buttons—many choices. Rather than choose one by his own violition, he instead settled on reaching into his pocket and fished for the key. These were only issued on a temporary basis when they needed you in a certain place at a certain time. Today would mark his first occurence wielding the coveted Key of Fate, as they were called. He'd heard plenty rumors of them during idle chatter in the office. Miss your deadline by one minute, find yourself in the wrong place, and Bravo-6 security forces would descend on you from all directions. It was apparently invisible to metal detectors, allowing you to get to your place of business on time and unscathed. But use it falsely, wittingly or unwittingly, and you were cruising for a bruising. He prayed to himself the morning would just progress static-free with no stress.

His fingers brushed up against the jagged teeth. He pinched it by the hilt and brought it to bear. Stenciled on the silver anodized material was the ONI logo: A proud bird of prey perched atop an all-seeing eye, personified paranoia typical of the spook division that he worked for. He took a breath, inserted the key and gave it a twist. The elevator silently descended.

Eli felt the boxcar seamlessly pickup speed, giving almost no hint of inertia. Its rate of descent might very well have been just below freefall. Any Helljumper would swear by it. The sounds of the downdraft it made wooshing into the plenums of every floor below it suggested such. For a whole minute he fell—through two kilometers of solid granite and a globally-hardened, EMP-resistant bowl the size of a small country. The only indicator of him reaching his destination was a chime, then the parting of the doors. He looked up: even the floor marker was blacked out so as not to discern the exact depth.

"Damned spooks." he mumbled.

He froze for an instant at the theshold to the corridor. They were probably listening right now. Every square meter was under surveillance, he knew that. But more, _he _was ONI. Despite his reservations, _he_ was a part of the society. Part of this internal affairs branch, this culture within a culture. He resumed again, stepping beyond the doorsill and setting foot into the only corridor stemming directly from the elevator. Straight, narrow, and the only choice. He hated not having a choice. It was a wonder he'd even made it this far in the armed service, but it had its perks.

His footsteps were muffled on thick carpet and even denser rock beneath. Come to think of it...there was no sound at all in the hallway except that which he generated. Not even the distant hum of a climate control unit. It made the journey to the door at the end long and confining. The distant portal grew in size unnaturally, slowly. Quickening his pace didn't seem to matter. Maybe he was on edge. Maybe the feeling of a hundred eyes all around him was just his fanciful imagination at work. After all, he had no idea why he was here this day. But he finally reached a door after what seemed like minutes.

He'd been summoned here by the powers that be. For what reason, he did not know. Ultimately, you didn't have to know. You just obeyed.

He slid his card once more and the doors parted.

...And there, seated at a conference table were two Admirals.

He snapped to attention and marched forth. Door closing behind him, he halted two paces off from the highest ranking—a full admiral—and threw up a crisp salute.

"Sir, Lieutenant Eli Haverson reporting as ordered."

The Admiral said nothing.

From the side, Vice Admiral Margret Parangosky cleared her throat. "Do you know why you've been called here today?"

This was usually the point at which some one would say 'at ease'.

But it didn't come.

Haverson remained locked up like a statue. "No ma'am." he replied.

"It's a question of ethics, isn't it?"

"Ma'am?"

"You initiated the process to pardon a Spartan from active duty recently." The Vice Admiral's voice was so flat and raspy that one might've thought they were listening in on a ninety year old, as if her windpipe was filled with all the smoke of a late night jazz club.

"Yes ma'am." he replied firmly. "I did."

"Tell me," she said, leaning forward, "what made you think you had the authority to issue such an order?"

"Ma'am, UNSCDF Instruction 1315.15, Special Separation Policies for Survivorship, ma'am."

"Really?" she smiled.

Amusement piqued on Parangosky's whipped face. And though Eli only caught the change from the corner of his eye, it scared him half to paralyzation. In this setting, a smiling admiral only meant one thing. You were about to enter a world of regret and punishment. You didn't have to be a bright junior officer to know this, you just had to have instinct.

He felt as though his blood temperature dropped about ten degrees, and a bead of sweat trickled down his back. These sensations reminded him of childhood, the feeling he got when he realized he did something terribly wrong. The guilt and shame. Only now, the stakes were much higher. Eli didn't dare swallow the cold lump of fear stuck in his throat while they were looking. "Yes ma'am." he managed.

"And what exactly does this Instruction specify?"

He answered straightforwardly. "It specifies that if all siblings of a uniformed member are KIA, POW, or otherwise MIA, then said soldier can be pardoned from active duty under the United Nations Family Hardship Act of 2526."

Her face suddenly contorted. "Spartans are her only family! She is a weapon system, Lieutenant! With a three-digit serial number!"

Haverson nearly lost his balance and involuntarily rocked back and forth on his heels like a punching bag, struggling to contain himself in her outburst. His closed fists filled with sweat and oozed between his fingers, but he still kept his bearing, kept his arms pinned at his sides and looked straight ahead like a good lieutenant would, fearing he'd falter if he met the Vice Admiral's gaze. Her voice was terribly abrasive.

Admiral Jones stood up from where he was seated and walked towards Haverson, calmly and intently as if strolling along on a quiet day in the park or a beach. At first glance, the Admiral slowly gaiting towards Haverson seemed like the more level-headed of the two, his facial features certainly more reserved than hers. _Maybe he's just playing the good cop, _Haverson mused. Nevertheless, this was a full Admiral, which made Haverson realize the situation had just gotten worse. Thusly, in Haverson's mind, the lax body language of this high-ranking individual began to come off even more malicious than Parangosky's venomous voice. He stepped right next to Haverson's side and eyed him up and down.

Haverson still maintained, gaze straight ahead.

"Tell me, Lieutenant, what justification did you have in doing this? What made you think that a Spartan was eligible for such leave?"

Eli replied, "Sir, she's wears the same uniform as you or I, bound by the same rules and regulations as anyone else. And I saw no language in the Instruction that exempted her from it."

Admiral Jones sighed. "You have no idea what you just did, Lieutenant Haverson. You...did the right thing. But you did the right thing according to your own, small mind. Those Instructions were never intended to be applied to programs such as Section Three's. The soldier you just pardoned has not been conditioned for this. She's a killing machine, and that Spartan was needed in the War with all the rest of her kind. Not only did you weaken the UNSC today, but you just helped in squandering humanity's last hope. Unfortunately for all of us this incident is no longer isolated and has crossed ONI's boundaries, so your decision is now irrevocable." The Admiral regarded Eli one last time before strolling back to his seat. "What will she do now, start a family?"

Parangosky hovered at the edge of her seat in the background, eager for some junior officer blood. Not only was it Haverson's ass on the line, but her's as well. She gestured towards Haverson still standing. "What should we do with this one?"

Jones thought for a moment upon retaking his seat at the head of the table, exacting another whiff of his sweet cigar. His eyes leveled at Haverson's. "I know exactly what to do." He didn't bother to look at Haverson again as he navigated through a datapad. "At ease, Lieutenant."

Eli let his arms go loose and unclenched his achy fists, then assumed the position of Parade Rest. Another moment and he took in a subtle breath through the nose and let it out smoothly, unclenching his jaw.

Admiral Jones resumed, "You are very resourceful. Maybe not too bright, but very resourceful. I have just the assignment for you." He thumbed further over the datapad's touchscreen, then stopped rather suddenly. "You are being reassigned to Reach, effective immediately. You will report to a Lieutenant Jacob Keyes there and remain under his direct supervision until he deems otherwise. He's going to sharpen you up by the numbers. He's gonna take you back to basics, Lieutenant. Hell, you might even learn how to tie your shoes faster. Is it correct that you're coming up for promotion this cycle?"

"Yes sir."

"Consider yourself denied in advance. You should expect to hold the rank of lieutenant far longer than he will because you don't deserve a rank that demands anything more than fetching coffee for the man. And, before you get there, you will _find_ this Spartan zero-six-two and advise her of her new…duty. _You _are charged with the timely execution of her separation from the UNSC. And so help me God, if you fail to accomplish either task, I'll see to it that you do hard time on some shit-hole frontier world. I'll make it my _mission_ to see you suffer. You get me, boy?"

"Yes, sir. Understood."

Haverson bit his lower lip as he spoke, "Sir, might I ask one question before we're through here?"

"Speak."

"My new assignement to Reach...is it an accompanied tour?"

"Put it this way," Jones replied, cocking his head to one side, "if you prove to me that you can handle your shit for the first year, _then _you can arrange for your family to join you at Reach. On your own wages. So save up your credits. Now get out of my sight."

Haverson involuntarily snapped to attention as if he'd just been struck by lightning. "Sir! Yes sir!"

Haverson saulted the pair of Admirals, who didn't bother to return the time-honored gesture of respect. He knew perfectly well that was coming to him. Instantly, he about faced and disappeared through the door, never to return to Earth again.


End file.
